Recovery Man

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  “We shall pay half.”

  “Half?” Yu asked. He hadn’t expected this. The Gyonnese had always been fair until now.

  “She is damaged. We know nothing of your kind. She might live until you are far from here, and then she dies. We need her for court.”

  “She’s fine,” Yu said.

  “You have told us she’s ill.”

  “I also told you it was nothing major.” But had he? Bruised meant that she was fine to humans, but what did it mean to Gyonnese? And the contamination. He’d explained the ninety-five percent, but not how severe the five percent was.

  “We have no external verification for that.”

  “You’ll have the medical program,” Yu said.

  “Which you will give us,” the center Gyonnese said. “We cannot trust it.”

  They had a point, but he wasn’t going to concede it. “I want full payment.”

  “You will get the second half when she appears in court,” the center Gyonnese said.

  “Pay me three-quarters,” Yu said. “I’ve lost my assistant.”

  “Half,” the center Gyonnese said.

  “I’ll take her away,” Yu said.

  “Half.” The center Gyonnese took his long arms and folded them across his body. He’d negotiated with humans before. He was trying to mimic the human gesture of crossing arms, only it didn’t really work. The folded arms looked like sausages wrapped around a stick.

  Yu had done enough business with the Gyonnese to know that the spokesman negotiated. He also had a sense this guy wasn’t going to negotiate further, at least on price.

  Yu had already negotiated a full price higher than anything he’d ever received from the Gyonnese. Maybe they’d figured that out. Half would still be more than he’d ever made from them.

  “Half,” he said, “if you pay me the rest after she wakes.”

  “You are not staying,” the center Gyonnese said.

  “Nope,” Yu said. “I’m going to get my hand repaired. When it’s done, I’ll come back, and you give me the rest.”

  “When we take her to court.”

  “No,” Yu said. “If I don’t get the second payment in the next few Earth days, I’m taking her now. You get nothing.”

  He heard a shushering sound, and realized that was the other Gyonnese talking softly, without benefit of the amplification device.

  Finally, the center Gyonnese said, “Half. The second payment will come within one Earth week.”

  That was about how long it would take him to find an adequate medical facility, to have the repair, and then to return.

  “Fine,” Yu said. “I want the first half now.”

  “Done,” the center Gyonnese said. “You owe us a medical program.”

  “You’ll get it as soon as I return to the ship.”

  “How do we take custody of the woman?” the center Gyonnese said.

  Yu pressed the side of the coffin. “Where do you want it?”

  “We want it to follow us,” the center Gyonnese said.

  “As soon as I verify payment, I’ll program that,” Yu said.

  Instantly, his links hummed. They had been blocking most of the nearby network. He quickly scanned the account he’d given them when they made the deal, and then he tapped part of the coffin.

  “She’s all yours,” he said. “Good luck with her. You’ll need it.”

  Forty-six

  Flint thought he would spend most of his flight looking at Rhonda’s files. Instead, he spent it trying to get permission to land on Callisto. The moon had only one major city, Valhalla Basin, and it was closed to anyone who didn’t live there or have a job waiting.

  Valhalla Basin had been built by Aleyd Chemical, in conjunction with several other smaller corporations, for the sole purpose of housing the people who mined Callisto or acted as support staff.

  Initially, Valhalla only allowed actual employees of Aleyd without their families. But the work grew as more and more minerals were discovered beneath Callisto’s icy surface, and employees refused to stay, until their families could join them.

  Hence the need for support staff. Aleyd, like so many other corporations in far-flung outposts, found itself building an entire city, complete with schools, government, and security. Which then brought the need for stores and entertainment and medical facilities.

  He tried to get in as an independent contractor, saying he had an actual client on Callisto who needed him, but that didn’t fit into the security regulations. He applied for sole proprietor status as a Retrieval Artist, and was immediately and rather rudely denied.

  Then he tried one final time, claiming his only family connection—as Rhonda Shindo-Flint’s ex-husband—and to his surprise, that worked. Apparently, ex-spouses were considered family under Valhalla Basin regulations because of child-visitation laws.

  He got a landing permit that gave him no more than seventy-two Earth hours in the Dome.

  Seventy-two Earth hours was probably more than he needed, but he would take it. If he needed more time (and he wasn’t sure why he would), he would get Rhonda’s help in attaining it.

  As he got closer to Callisto, he opened the cockpit windows and stared at the giant looming sand-colored ball that was Jupiter. It dominated the screen long before he was within landing range of Callisto. Jupiter wasn’t nearly as beautiful as Earth, but it had an elegance that he hadn’t expected. The colors varied more the closer he got, and the surface looked almost inviting with its reds and oranges and different shades of brown.

  Callisto was the outermost satellite of Jupiter. It was also one of the larger moons. It became visible long before the others were more than suggestions in the window.

  About that point, as well, he started to receive Callisto-based advertising on his personal links. Before he’d been given final permission to land, he received audio warning messages: Only authorized vehicles allowed on Callisto, followed by full-sized 3-D ads that scrolled in a corner of his left eye, offering hotel rooms on a station not too far from Callisto, an entertainment palace—really another space station—that specialized in “activities not allowed in Jupiter’s Moons” (Stay here, where people have fun). That ad changed to an ominous Last chance for fun before you go to Callisto’s moon, and a parade of naked women traveling across his inner screen.

  He didn’t mind being linked up—he’d shut down most of the private information from his links—because it set another trail for someone else to find. But he was startled at all the advertising and general noise along the pathways. He’d never experienced anything quite like it, not even at relaxation resorts on the main space-traffic lines.

  The closer he got, the more the messages changed. He started seeing holo-ads—little plays, really—for religious entertainment, all of them with red banners across the bottom that read Perfect for the nonaffiliated! Which made him wonder if he had left too much personal information in his links.

  Then tiny ads appeared on a small corner of his board. They showed hotel rooms and waterfalls and lovely ice caves, as well as spectacular dining areas—all approved by Aleyd Chemical and its affiliates, the ads proudly told him. Safe vacations for any Aleyd Chemical worker who needs a few days away. Just a short hop on public transport (accompanied by a view of a sleek corporate ship) got all qualified workers to the nearest relaxation spot of their choice.

  And then a third series of ads began, covering the entire floor of his cockpit. He was too astonished and curious to shut them off. They advertised more vacation spots—some of them extreme, some of them family oriented—all fully paid for any Aleyd Chemical (and affiliates) employees who had satisfactorily completed the average sixty-Earth-hour week, fifty Earth-weeks per year.

  Flint gasped at the work schedule. He thought that Earth Alliance had mandated a strict thirty-two-hour workweek for all but government officials and security personnel throughout the Alliance. After several problems stemming from corporate-mandated overwork, the Alliance made those laws apply to all human c
ultures throughout its member states.

  But somehow Aleyd had avoided that rule. He wondered how. He deleted the repetitive religious advertising so that he could run the question through his public links.

  But another series of holo-ads started running in the religious ads’ place. These showed him houses all over Valhalla.

  Should you decide to extend your seventy-two-hour courtesy visit on Valhalla Basin, a female voice droned across his links, your income would place you in the top .05 percent of all Valhalla residents. You would have your choice of state-of-the-art housing, some with views of the oldest mines, others with underground labyrinths so unique…

  He didn’t wait for the rest of the pitch. He shut off all of the advertising, and then he shut down all but the most essential information from his links. All identifying information on the links had to have a ballpark income, but his was deliberately low. If the Valhalla advertising drones had taken that as one of the highest incomes on Callisto, then the people were not as well off as he would have thought.

  He passed through a shimmery grid that hovered at the edge of Callisto’s space. The grid sent all kinds of landing data to his ship’s computers, and a private message appeared on his links from the Emmeline herself.

  Invasive and malicious information trackers have been placed in my systems. I have isolated them. Should I neutralize them?

  He wondered if that would be taken as a hostile act, then decided to try it. If whatever passed for Space Traffic Control on Callisto objected, he would claim ignorance of their customs and promise to never do so again.

  Go ahead, he told the ship. But download them onto a chip so that I can examine them later.

  He wanted to know what Callisto felt important enough to send into every ship that entered its space.

  No warning lights flashed, no warning announcements blared. He got one message from Valhalla Basin’s Space Traffic Control, asking him to resend his ship’s registrations, which he did. Then he received landing coordinates.

  It was, he decided as he double-checked the coordinates himself, the oddest approach he’d ever experienced.

  The Port had its own dome just outside Valhalla Basin. According to the map he uploaded, the Port Dome actually had three parts. The first held the important business functions, the second—which was unconnected to the other two—was for cargo-only ships: ships with no living presence at all; and the third was for all other ships.

  A lot of nearby vehicles diverted to the cargo-only section, and only two—both marked with long red flames on the exterior—headed toward the main landing dome. He followed at a good distance, surprised that the Port still encouraged hands-on landings instead of mechanizing the process from within.

  The landing went smoothly. He shut down all the important systems immediately—not wanting anything to hack into his databases—and as he did so, the standard Port Information blared across his overhead and in his links.

  He would have to decontaminate, of course, and so would the Emmeline (although she was approved as she entered, according to a calmer, less judgmental voice that spoke smoothly yet firmly over the standard announcement) and, due to an ongoing investigation at the Valhalla Dome Police Department, he was asked to remain on his ship until a representative cleared him for arrival.

  What matter was being investigated? How long would he have to wait? Who was he waiting for?

  No matter how hard he queried, no one answered his questions. And he wasn’t sure how long he was willing to wait.

  Forty-seven

  For the first time that day, Zagrando had settled into his office. He wanted to do some research on Rhonda Shindo herself. She seemed like a maze of contradictions—a woman who loved her cloned child; a woman who had signed away all parental rights in a contract; a woman who had possibly allowed another clone to be killed.

  He couldn’t figure her out, and he believed that was the key to finding her.

  Gonzalez had left him in the prison yard. She had finally agreed to see Hakim Olaniyan. Zagrando had convinced her that Olaniyan would be able to make temporary custody work on Valhalla Basin. Gonzalez had argued for a few moments—she believed that Alliance law would be enough—but he had finally prevailed.

  “If time is the most important factor to you,” he’d said, “then you need Hakim. Otherwise, you’ll be arguing the precedence of Alliance law in a corporate state for the next year of your life.”

  She had looked appalled. Then she’d agreed to a vid-link introduction and a brief meeting to plan strategy. Zagrando had supervised the introduction, then headed back to his office.

  He felt he had only a small amount of time to complete his police work, and he wanted to use as many of his resources as possible to find Rhonda Shindo.

  If she were found, then most of the issues he—and Gonzalez—were dealing with would vanish.

  If he was being completely true to himself, he had to acknowledge that he was searching so hard for her because he wanted her found before his cover completely vanished.

  He had just started reviewing the files when Dowd Bozeman peeked his head into the office.

  Zagrando was surprised. Bozeman was supposed to take charge of the physical evidence. He shouldn’t even have been at the police station.

  “Guess what we just got?” Bozeman said.

  Zagrando hated guessing games. They wasted time. “What?”

  “The father,” Bozeman said.

  Zagrando blinked, trying to understand. Then he realized what Bozeman meant. The father of Talia Shindo—or at least of the original.

  “Got? What do you mean got?”

  “He landed in the Port, after receiving a seventy-two-hour work visa. He used Shindo’s name to get it.”

  “He came from the Moon?”

  Bozeman shrugged. “I figured you’d want to ask him yourself. You’ve been handling the family. You can handle him.”

  Zagrando felt disoriented. What was the father doing here? “Did you put out a notification of the kidnapping on the Alliance nets?”

  “Nope. We kept it in-house so far, even though we’re all pretty sure that she’s off Callisto by now.”

  Zagrando hadn’t sent any notifications, either, although someone might have told the father. Maybe the law firm that Gonzalez belonged to. They were from Armstrong, as well.

  It couldn’t be a coincidence that the man was here. Zagrando believed, even though he wasn’t completely positive, that this father, this Miles Flint, had never come to Callisto before. If Zagrando’s suppositions were right, Flint thought his daughter was dead. He didn’t realize that a clone was running around Valhalla Basin.

  A clone who needed him as a guardian.

  Zagrando sent an urgent message along his links for Celestine Gonzalez. Stop what you’re doing and meet me at the Port. We have another option.

  Her response was swift: Documents almost filed. If we stop now, we miss today’s deadlines.

  Miss them, Zagrando sent. We have a possible new guardian.

  Who? She sent back.

  Someone who just arrived in Valhalla Basin. Maybe you’ve heard of him. His name is Miles Flint.

  Forty-eight

  Gonzalez didn’t believe that Miles Flint had come to Valhalla Basin. But that didn’t stop her from heading to the Port. She had paid Hakim Olaniyan his retainer, told him to hold the documents until she contacted him, and then flagged the nearest automatic airtaxi, telling the damn thing to hurry as it headed across Valhalla Basin.

  She still didn’t beat Zagrando to their meeting place at the only restaurant in the Port. He hadn’t gone inside. He was pacing, his face drawn. A few passersby stared at him as if he worried them, but the security officers who passed nodded in greeting.

  The restaurant was in the center Dome, where the law firm’s yacht rested several meters behind security plating.

  “Have you even verified that this is our man?” she asked as she walked up.

  Zagrando frowned at her, then stopped
pacing. He shoved his hands in his pockets, a boyish move that seemed out of place with the tension that ran through the rest of his body.

  “Get this,” he said as he led her toward security. “It’s a yacht named, of all things, the Emmeline. I went over every single contact he had with the Port. He was denied access to Valhalla Basin until he stated he was Rhonda Shindo-Flint’s ex-husband. Then they granted him a 7seventy-two-hour pass.”

  “Nothing got flagged?”

  “Not then,” Zagrando said. “Not until they were doing the routine background check. Apparently, Shindo left a message that she be notified if he ever came here. They tried to notify her and then got the police bulletin.”

  Gonzalez took his arm. “The Port didn’t know she was missing?”

  “This part of Port Security worries about entries, not departures. We’ve been working with the departures area, but so far, nothing.”

  She shook her head, privately feeling relieved she lived in Armstrong. They were the oldest and most active port off Earth, and their security procedures dated back generations.

  “It’s strange that he’s here now,” Gonzalez said.

  “That’s what I thought,” Zagrando said. “I checked the flight plan he sent as part of his request to come here, and I checked with the Moon. He left there not too long after you did, and arrived here on schedule, maybe even a little early. Apparently the man has money.”

  “Rumors are that he stole it from the police.”

  Zagrando looked at her in surprise. “I thought he once was police.”

  “He quit and became rich within the same week.”

  “Surely Armstrong’s police department doesn’t have enough money to lose it, and fail to prosecute.”

  “The folks in the know think he stole information worth millions.”

  “And you? What do you think?”

  “That I spend too much time watching gossip feeds.”

  She smiled at him to take the edge off her words and let him lead her back through security. No one really cared that they were going in. Which was incredibly different from that draconian line she’d gone through on the way in.